CHAPTER 1
LUKE
Luke Porter straightened his lab coat and stepped into Chief Marco Gonzalez’s office. The chief of surgery was seated behind his large mahogany desk with his laptop open, but he closed it when Luke entered.
“Thanks for coming. Please have a seat.” Marco gestured to the empty chair on the other side of the desk, and Luke sank into it. “I’ve called you here to ask a favor.”
“Let me guess,” Luke said. His tone walked the line between amusement and annoyance. “You want me to spend more time with interns, or donate more pro bono hours, or take a few extra shifts?”
Marco chuckled. He and Luke had known each other since they were both trauma surgery fellows at Portland Oregon’s Willamette Hospital five years ago. Since then, Marco had moved more and more into management, while Luke had dedicated longer and longer hours to his work as a trauma surgeon. They still got along, but their goals were increasingly divergent. That was apparent in the kind of requests that Marco made of Luke — like today.
“It’s not that,” Marco said. “Although yes, please, as always. We always need more hours from good surgeons like you. This time, though, I’d like you to speak about triage in emergency events at a medical conference in two weeks.”
“I’d rather not,” Luke said bluntly. He folded his hands on the desk, his gray-blue eyes steady. "You know I don’t appreciate that kind of thing. My time would be better spent with patients.” He was already thinking about when this conversation would end. He’d left a stable but emergency appendicitis case with an intern to answer this page, and he wanted to get back to the patient as soon as possible.
“I know you feel that way, but your recent research on effective triage has gotten a lot of buzz. Speaking at the conference would be good for you — and for Willamette Hospital.” Marco took off his glasses and trained his dark brown eyes on Luke. “You know we need good publicity, not just good doctors.”
“I get that,” Luke said. He leaned forward. “But I don’t know if this would be good publicity for myselforthe hospital. You know I don’t enjoy talking to rooms full of pretentious doctors who only want to show just how smart they are, instead of actually learning anything. I feel speaking at the conference would be a waste of time when I could be in the ER or in surgery.”
“I know,” Marco repeated. “But remember, I’m a doctor too. Most of your friends are doctors. Not all of us are as pretentious as you make us out to be — and educating your colleagues and friends isn’t a waste of time.”
Luke stifled a snort at the word “friends.” He’d had friends, once, and plans for a future outside of the hospital. Those times had passed long ago. Now, he has colleagues, nothing more. He doesn’t meet people for evening drinks anymore, or spendSundays on double dates at the park or the zoo. He spends his Sundays and evenings in the ER, taking on more and more cases and working longer and longer hours.
“Can I get a resident to research the paper for me?” Luke asked. There were a few bright residents this year, and they’d probably be happy to get the exposure of a conference, unlike Luke.
“You should be the one to do it.” Marco was still smiling, but his eyes were slightly narrowed. Luke recognized this as his serious expression. It was the same one he’d worn when they’d worked side by side after a bus crash, communicating without having to speak. They hadn’t been “friends” then either, but they had been on the same page. Luke didn’t feel that way anymore.
“Chief,” Luke said, purposefully using Marco’s title instead of his first name, “are youaskingme ortellingme to do this?”
“Telling you,” Marco admitted.
Luke nodded. “I thought so. Thanks for the heads-up.” Luke got to his feet, shook the chief’s hand, and turned on his heel, straightening his jacket.
As he left Marco’s office, Luke tried his best not to fume. He knew that speaking engagements like this were part of being a well-known surgeon at a hospital with a stellar reputation, but he always hated doing them. He preferred to be with patients, and if there had been a way to say no to this, he would have. He’d tried.
There was no use dwelling now, though. Luke ran a hand through his short brown hair as he jogged down the stairs. At work, he opted for sneakers with his dark blue scrubs so he could move quickly, and this was one of the times he needed to hurry.He never knew what would happen in the ER — that was what he loved about it, but also why it needed his full attention.
He burst through the double doors and made a beeline for the appendicitis patient. The resident assigned to the patient explained that an operating room had been booked and they were on the way up. Satisfied, Luke turned back to survey the open space. Gurneys and hospital beds lined the walls on both sides, with curtains that could be closed for privacy. The tan laminate floor was spotlessly clean, and the ER was buzzing with movement, as always. Nurses, doctors, and orderlies crossed back and forth, sometimes leading patients in street clothes or hospital gowns.
Luke didn’t have much time to take in the scene, as one of the residents beckoned him over, giving him a quick patient history as he arrived.
“Patient’s name is Elizabeth Hawkings, seventy-five years old, came in vomiting blood and complaining of dizziness and stomachache. Resident of the memory-care facility over at Rose Garden.”
Rose Garden was a local retirement home where a lot of Alzheimer’s patients were cared for. Luke nodded as he stopped by the woman’s bed. She looked pale and fragile, and he flashed her a quick, reassuring smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Hawkings. My name is Doctor Luke Porter, and I’m here to help you.” He turned to the resident. “What do the scans show?”
“The CT showed an epigastric mass,” the resident explained. As Luke examined the patient and checked the scans, the chief’s request, his frustration, and all other thoughts outside ofwork faded away. The only thing that mattered was Elizabeth Hawkings and her health.
“And the chem seven?” he asked.
“Her clotting factors are low.”
Luke’s heart began to race. He smiled down at Elizabeth and patted her hand. “We’re going to move you straight to surgery,” he told her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
This was what Luke loved about work. When he was here, when he was diagnosing or in surgery or talking to patients, he wasn’t a thirty-six-year-old widower anymore. He wasn’t a workaholic surgeon with no personal life. He wasn’t a blunt and sometimes unkind attending, as the hospital staff called him when they thought he couldn’t hear. He was just a doctor, a healer, someone who could help. That was all that mattered.
Luke and the resident raced Mrs. Hawkings up to surgery and were able to stop her bleeding and get her stable. Luke sent her to the ICU, scrubbed again, and returned to the ER at a brisk pace. Back downstairs, Luke found Mrs. Hawkings’s daughter, a woman in her early fifties with graying hair and an expression pinched with worry.
